Final Scene Extended & some loose ends
by Scarlie
Summary: What Margaret and Mr Thornton could have told each other if only Mr Dickens had a little bit of patience. This started as a little extension of the final scene in the book but has kept going. Exclusively book-based.
1. Details

North & South final scene extended version

If there is one reason to immensely dislike Dickens, it is the end of N&S. Why could he not allow for some more time, I ask! Ah, men and patience! ;) Anyway, with my most sincere apologies to Mrs Gaskell for taking liberties, this is my extended final scene. The bits in italics is the original text. I based this on the book, altho RA was in my mind (of course, how else!)

Your thoughts and comments are most welcome!

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_After a minute or two, he gently disengaged her hands from her face, and laid her arms as they has once before been place to protect him from the rioters. _

'_Do you remember, love?' he murmured. 'And how I requited you with my insolence the next day?'_

'_I remember how wrongly I spoke to you, -- that is all'._

Margaret lifted her head back as if to look at him, but she kept her gaze averted. She slid her hands down his arms as if to steady herself a little.

"Oh Mr Thornton! I must tell you something. -- That night at the station. -- The man you saw me with…"

He motioned to stop her but she buried her face in him again, and he felt her slender fingers tightening their grip.

"Please - exhaled she quickly, her voice almost inaudible. "I beg you, let me finish. It has weighed on my conscience for so long. I cannot bear it. I owe you an explanation of what I did… of how I was tempted …"

She looked around distractedly, as if not knowing how to proceed. Then she collected herself a little and with a steadier voice said:

"Oh please Mr Thornton, have a seat. There, take this chair over there. You will be more comfortable if you sit down."

Mr Thornton pulled the chair near hers, sat on the edge of it, and, as if jealous of any remaining space between them, leaned forward, drawing her soft hand between his broad reassuring palms. The feeling of her warm silky flesh, her round wrist, her taper fingers was exquisite and almost too much to bear. He did not want to cause her pain, as he knew this interview would, but he instinctively understood her need to unburden, to cleanse her soul, to escape her misery, and he would do anything, no matter how useless it seemed to him, to help her. Margaret did not dare look up at him. She felt only too keenly that she ought to atone to this good, deserving man. She steeled herself against her rearing mortification, and as if drawing strength from his steady touch, took one sharp breath and began in a soft but clear whisper:

"The man you saw me with that night at the station was my brother Frederick. We don't often talk of him. I am sure we have never mentioned him to you. Many years ago, Frederic was in the navy and partook in a mutiny. He's innocent but he can't prove it. He lives in Spain now. He can never come home. There is a bounty on his head, you see. -- We knew poor mama did not have many days left and she so wanted to see him for one last time. We were fortunate that he could come so quickly but we could not tell anyone." Her voice quivered, her head lowered further, but she continued. "The night you saw us, Fred was leaving. We went to the Outwood station because we thought there was less risk of detection. That man Leonards knew us from Helstone and he recognized Fred. He tried to grab him and... oh, it happened so fast. Fred pushed him and he fell from the platform. But he seemed unharmed and I did not think much of it at the time. All I could think of was seeing Fred safely on the train. When the police inspector came…" Her voice faltered, her shoulders convulsed, he felt few hot tears fall, one after another, on his hands. He raised one hand, the other keeping her tiny palm secure, and gently pushed few stray hairs off her temple. He hushed her gently, his face moving closer to hers, his eyes fixed on her with immense tenderness and longing. She nested her head in his cupped hand, but her eyes remained closed; her long moist eyelashes reminded him of supple young pine leaves glistening with the tiny droplets of summer rain. He yearned to drink these tiny pure raindrops away and let her face shine forward with serene beauty. Her voice interrupted his reverie.

"When the police inspector came, I didn't know if Fred was out of the country, for he had to stay a few days in London to meet Mr Lennox, and I hadn't received news from him yet. Oh, had I known that he was safe – as he was - I would have never said that falsehood. I would have never denied being at the station. But I could not risk it. I could not and I would not, cost what it might -- I have done wrong, I know I have. I who had prided myself on truth and honour… I feel so ashamed, debased! Oh how I repent… Please understand, Mr Thornton!"

Suddenly, she grabbed his hands earnestly, her sparkling eyes wide open, arresting him, begging his forgiveness. Mr Thornton gladly plunged in the dark depths of those glorious pools; he was mesmerized, hypnotized, he knew not, he cared not to know, where he was. He felt, perhaps strangely as his head was spinning and his heart pounding, peace at last. He instinctively kissed her small white hands, beheld those full inviting lips and flushed cheeks and mumbled, his voice hoarse with passion:

"Oh my Margaret! My Margaret!"... He started and applied every last ounce of mental and bodily strength to compose himself a little and continued: "Hush, my love! Do not distress yourself, I beg you! I know what happened. I know it was your brother. I always had faith in you, your character, your virtue, you most excellent creature! I did not know your reasons but I was certain in your superior judgment. I do understand! We shall not speak of it again, my love. It does not signify now."

The shadow lifted from Margaret's face, there was a glimmer of hope in her unsure smile: "I was so mortified by your kindness, your generosity in preventing the inquest. I knew I have fallen utterly and irretrievably before you. I was certain I was nothing to you, and that you would not care for my explanation anyway. I was so miserable. I longed to be able to explain, but you were cold and distant, and then you stopped reading with Papa, and …"

Mr Thornton buried his fingers in her luscious hair and gently pulled her head close to his throbbing heart.

"Oh, my little silly girl! I stopped coming to your house because I could not face you, I could not bear seeing you and knowing you belonged to someone else… Hush, let me talk now. I saw the look of love on your face; the way you gazed at this elegant, handsome man at the station, your small exquisite hand safely tucked in his arm… oh how this image has tortured me! One cannot conceive such savage and relentless pain. I lost all my powers of self-control, could not resolve on anything, quitted my center. I was cursed, mad with jealousy. …. And when you left Milton, on that black day, my life became blank. When you were in Milton, I could see you, and I still hoped, not that you would ever love me or like me even, but that your sweet image would propel my sore heart one more day. You might have disliked me and despised me, but I walked the streets you walked, I breathed the air you breathed. I shared something with you. In London you were lost to me forever. When we stood again at the steps of the mill, I resolved to free myself of the chains of love, but what a fool I was!"

He gently took her by the shoulders and pulled her back a little, just enough to lock her eyes in his intent gaze: "Oh, Margaret! If you only knew what you are to me. I know I am but a rough and uncouth fellow but my heart is pure and it will be true forever."

Margaret's fingers rose timidly to Mr Thornton's face, her soft fingertips traced his eyebrows, his cheekbones, the outline of his broad, stern jaw, and stopped on his lips, pushing them ever so gently to silence. Her voice came soft and clear:

"My heart is yours forever, John Thornton. And I promise I shall endeavour to deserve you".

She leaned forward and nestled her head on his broad chest and his arms engulfed her in sweet silence.

'_Look here! Lift up your head. I have something to show you'__…_

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Thanks for reading, Please let me know if you liked it... and especially if you didn't.


	2. No Mistakes This Time

This is the second extension to the last chapter. I m afraid I have no master plan behind it. It's simply things I would have loved to see. We'll see where this leads me.

For the record - I have read N&S. I do know who wrote it. It wasn't Charles Dickens. I checked! ;)

But seriously now, I feel Mr Dickens owes us a considerable literary debt for obliging Mrs Gaskell (in her words) "_to conform to the conditions imposed by the requirements of a weekly publications and likewise... certain advertising limits_" whereby "_the author found it impossible to develope the story in the manner originally intended, and, more especially, was compelled to hurry in events with improbable rapidity towards the close_", leading to "_obvious defects_".

So without even the slightest whiff of a presumption that I can remedy what Mrs Gaskell could not, here is my second filler. Italics are mine and denote original text.

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'_How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?' she whispered, after some time of delicious silence._

'_Let me speak to her.'_

'_Oh, no! I owe it to her, -- but what will she say?'_

'_I can guess. He__r first exclamation would be, "That man!" '_

'_Hush', __said Margaret, 'or I shall try and show you your mother's indignant tones as she says, "That woman!" '_

'Aye', Mr Thornton's laughed out warmly and pulled her yet closer to him. 'I dare say she might say something like that. But you two will get on capitally, I am sure of it' (and then rather thoughtfully, in a lower tone, as if uncertain if he wanted Margaret to hear it) 'Mind you, I should probably give my poor mother a fair warning. She is a fine and good-hearted woman, just a little shy.'

Margaret chuckled silently at the thought of Mrs Thornton's being described in such terms. Another time, she might have felled compelled to search for words that did more justice to the lady's formidable character, but at present her mind was otherwise engaged, so instead, she said brightly:

'Mr Thornton, you should return to Milton as soon as possible, should not you?'

He instinctively drew himself up and pulled back in puzzlement and dismay; his words coming out before he could moderate their unintended coldness:

'Excuse me, I did not think you would want me away so soon.'

Margaret blushed and replied hurriedly:

'No, please, you misunderstand me. I only thought that it would be rather necessary, if you were to secure as many of your workmen as possible before they found employment elsewhere. And I imagined there would be letters to be written…to suppliers… and partners…' Her voice trailed off uncertainly and died. She coloured and looked away ashamed. What was she thinking, being so presumptuous! Surely Mr Thornton does not need her advice! She was extremely vexed with herself.

Mr Thornton's shoulders relaxed and his expression, so stern and forbidding a moment ago, broke into a broad white smile. A devilish twinkle appeared in his eye:

'I see now what Bell was about calling you Miltonian and manufacturing. Why, Miss Hale, I should be careful indeed, if I am ever to keep my position as master.' But then, realizing she may mistake his meaning for a rebuke, and eager to avoid any mortification or discomfort, he reached for her gently:

'You are quite right, love. I shall return to Milton tomorrow, after I meet with Lennox and go over all the details of your proposal.' (the little mischievous smile appeared again.) 'To make certain your interests are properly looked after. One can never completely know with these manufacturing people and their northern ways.'

'I am most obliged for your kind offices, Mr Thornton,' recovered Margaret quickly. 'Mr Lennox has brought us some rather strange news lately, of experiments of most bizarre nature: warm meals, schooling for children and what not. Outrageous! One may not but think the Masters' Union ought to have dealt with such foreign inflictions!'

Mr Thornton threw his head back and his deep manly laugh rippled through the room. How long has it been since he last enjoyed himself so immensely! She is something, this lovely, vivacious, sparkling creature, there cannot be two opinions on the matter. He looked intently at her smiling eyes.

'Margaret, will you not call me by my Christian name? I should like you very much to call me John.'

'To be sure I shall like it very much as well.' She replied assuredly. 'It is just that when we talk of … business,' (she liked the sound of the word, the taste it left was strangely gratifying, maybe she can, after all, get used to such talk), 'it is only natural to think of you as Mr. Thornton, reputed manufacturer and magistrate.'

'Why! You sound alarmingly like my mother, Margaret.' His white teeth gleamed again. 'But you will not drive me off with clever speech. Could you not call me John?'

'You already are, and always will be, my dear, beloved John.'

Hearing his name, rolling softly from her curved mouth, these precious feelings reflected in her luminous eyes, acted upon him as the elixir of youth. He felt the years rolling back; the energy of youth reclaiming, permeating every cell in his body; the worries, so insurmountable only an hour ago, shrinking to mere trifles. Yes, he was looking forward to the future again, sharing it, and all its triumphs and exultations, with Margaret Hale. His Margaret Hale. His Margaret! Her name alone brought sweetness and pleasure so intense, so sublime, that his heart ached. He wanted to share his life with this woman and nothing, no memory nor fear, would stand on his way. He took her small hands, paused a little, his body stiffening almost imperceptibly, and looking eagerly at her lovely face, his words came out slowly and with tender determination:

'Miss Hale, Margaret, would you do me the greatest honour and consent to be my wife?'

If there was any hint of apprehension or fear, it did not show. Perhaps his eyes were a little too earnest, his countenance graver and his manner more formal than the occasion required. He was certain of his success, and yet!, he felt like a little boy waiting for the sternest verdict. She looked at this just and noble man, the man who loved her, loves her, despite her faults and errors and who made her feel a woman; the man whom she loved, more fervently and deeply than she ever imagined herself capable of, and with whom she hoped to grow old.

'Yes', came her soft reply, 'I shall like this very much.'

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Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think.


	3. Sobs & Sighs

OK, I am on something of a roll here. I wrote this while waiting for my car tyres to be changed, so admittedly the surroundings were not very 'period'. But I had to get it out here, as this is a first of several variations on the same tune, namely how would everyone take the news of Margaret and John marrying. First up is our darling Edith. Wish her luck! LOL

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Chapter 3: Sobs and Sighs

Margaret showed Mr Thornton out and tiptoed back to the room. It was almost time for tea and she had to face her aunt and cousin and break the news of her engagement. Engagement! What a peculiar sound it had – engagement! Suddenly, she was overcome by such violent feelings of complete and utter happiness, that she barely managed to close the door of the room and collapse exhausted on the easy chair. She hid her face in her hands. Engaged to be married! And to Mr Thornton! He loved her still – despite everything – could she deserve such blessedness!? She suppressed a powerful urge to squeal with joy and exultation. 'I must compose myself', she muttered to herself. 'Oh, dear. What is wrong with me? I cannot control myself. I am going mad.'

She stood up and went to the window. But it would not do. Rest would not come. She started pacing up and down the room. Her heart was pounding, her hands were shaking. She clenched her little fingers in tiny fists and tried to contain herself. Right, she had to tell Aunt Shaw and Edith. Before Mr Thornton, John … Her John! Her feet started dancing, she made a little pirouette... 'Right, enough! Stop it Margaret' she scolded herself sternly. Before he left, they had discussed at length how best to break the news. It seemed only natural that she would tell her Aunt and Edith and he would tell Mrs Thornton and Fanny. Little attention was spent on Henry Lennox, on account of John meeting him later today, but they agreed that he should not give him any intelligence. Margaret had not mentioned what has passed between Henry and herself. 'Should I have? But it was so long ago. Surely it would not matter now. But may a woman have secrets from her husband?' she wondered. For sure, she did not want to have any secrets from John. She had quite enough with secretiveness. Yes, she shall tell him, she determined, in due time, when an opportune moment presents itself.

They have agreed that she would tell her Aunt and Edith tonight. John will return to Milton tomorrow to tell the news to Mrs Thornton ('Shy, indeed!') and to Fanny. But he will call upon them in the morning, before he leaves, and meet her Aunt. Oh, there are so many decisions still to be made – when would she be able to go to Milton? Where would she stay? Their house in Crampton was probably already let, and it made little sense to secure a new lease, for what she hoped to be a very short time. But maybe they ought to wait a little, until the mill is running smoothly again. She was sure it was going to be a very busy time for him, and he probably will not be favourably inclined to any distractions. She should keep this in mind. Oh, if only Fred can come to the wedding!

To tell the truth, Margaret was a little apprehensive of talking to her Aunt and Edith. Not that she was afraid of a refusal; her aunt could not refuse her; but she was only too aware of the sentiments the intelligence might induce, the very same she was now ashamed to remember she had harboured not very long ago. She decided to tackle Edith first, as there was a chance she would be easier to persuade, and, once persuaded, Edith would be an ally in convincing Aunt Shaw.

Fortunately, Mrs Shaw was paying a visit at present, and her cousin was reclining on the sofa in the front drawing-room, tired from the previous night's party. Edith sluggishly turned her head when Margaret entered, a little irritated at being left alone for the afternoon.

'At last, Margaret! What ever took you so long?'

'Oh, Edit! I have the most wonderful news to tell you', Margaret approached with outstretched arms.

'News?' Edit sat upright rapidly, her eyes opened wide. 'Has Henry finally proposed? Oh Margaret, this is wonderful news indeed!'

'Henry?' Margaret stopped in mid career, more puzzled than surpised. 'What ever gave you this silly idea? -- No! Mr Thornton!'

'Mr Thornton?' Edith's look registered initial confusion, and then, realizing who Margaret was referring to, deep shock. 'Your tenant? The man Henry brought to my party the night before last? Mr Thornton from Milton?'

'Yes, Edith. The very one.'

'You are joking! He did not! He could not!' Edith whispered in utter disbelief.

'Why Edith! What do you mean? Mr Thornton has proposed and I accepted him!'

'But what about Henry?' Edit cried despondently.

'Edith, are you sure you are well?' Margaret came forward, genuinely concerned, and sate next to her on the sofa.

'No! I am not well. Not well at all', said Edith vexedly. Her voice rose to a high pitch: 'But you were supposed to marry Henry and settle here with us. We were going to live all together and be so happy!" Edith was sobbing inconsolably now.

Margaret gently took her cousin's hand and pressed it gently. Her voice was soft and tender:

'Darling Edith, you cannot possibly expect me, or Henry, for that matter, to marry just for the sake of convenient housing arrangements. I am sure the thought has not crossed Henry's mind, but even if I had married Henry, we could not possibly all live here. This house is not big enough. It is perfect for you, and aunt, and Captain Lennox.'

'And you, and Sholto! And we could always remove to Belgravia.'

Margaret remained silent, watching the golden curls of her cousin bouncing in the rhythm with her sobs. After a minute, Edith raised her teary eyes and pleaded:

'But what about Sholto! He loves you so, Margaret. You are his favourite aunt. He will cry so much!'

Margaret laughed gently: 'His favourite aunt hopes to be around for a long while yet, only a little farther away. But Milton is such an easy journey from London.'

'Milton!' Edith was overcome by another burst of tears. 'That dreadful, cold place! You never liked it. You always wrote how miserable you were when you lived there. I have your letters! I can show them to you!'

'This was a long time ago.' Edith's petulance did not unsettle Margaret. 'My opinions are changed now. And I shall be with someone I love, and close to dear mamma. You are so happy here, because you are close to Aunt and the Captain. Would you not allow me the same happiness?'

'But you don't even like Mr Thornton, Margaret! You always said that he was most disagreeable and cruel, and not a gentleman at all.'

'I was very wrong in my opinion of Mr Thornton' said Margaret, still a little ashamed. 'I did not know him well then. Pray believe me when I say that Mr Thornton is a most wonderful and just man, and a real gentleman. In fact, he is more of a gentleman than many among our acquaintances. Come, Edith, you married the Captain for love, you must understand why I want to marry Mr Thornton.'

'So you love him more than you love us?'

'You love the dear Captain more than anything, do you not?'

'Not more than Sholto! Sholto is such a wonderful creature, the most adorable thing in the world.' Edith sniffed, and began to blink rapidly to dry her eyes.

'I am sure I should love my children as much as you love dear Sholto. But I promise you, I shall come and visit him, and you and aunt, regularly, and of course you will visit us in Milton. Mr Thornton's house is big enough for us all. Mr Bell stayed there when he visited and said it was very spacious and all the rooms were aired regularly. And Mrs Thornton gives such grand dinners, where one meets with the very best of society. I am sure I heard Mr Colthurst the other night speak very highly of Mrs Thornton's dinners. And Mr Thornton's sister loves parties quite as much as you do. She will be very glad to have you as her friend, you know. She has told me how much she loves London. She is around your age and is also recently married. So you see, it is not bad.'

At the end of all this intelligence, Edith was prepared to allow that Milton may be able, after all, to offer her some civilized society, and that her visits there might not be so intolerably dull, and might even be quite pleasant. After some moments, she rose from her seat and sighed:

'Poor Henry! He would be wretched! -- Oh well, it can not be helped now! -- And Mamma? Have you told Mamma? She would...'

Just at this moment, Mrs Shaw chose to walk into the drawing room.

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	4. That Man!

Mrs Shaw crossed the room, closely followed by her lapdog, and seated herself, careful not to disturb the rich folds of her stately gown. Tiny stretched next to her feet and lazily began to eye the tea table.

'What a day! I am quite exhausted.' Mrs Shaw's manner was always a little plaintive. 'I am just come from Mrs Gibson with most alarming intelligence. Poor Eliza was so distraught that I did not dare leave her. She was in such a state, I was almost afraid for her life. I declare I know not how she would bear the night.'

'Oh, never mind Mrs Gibson, mamma', Edith cried impatiently. 'You will not think twice about Mrs Gibson's news when you hear Margaret's!'

Mrs Shaw lifted her eyes in a silent question.

'Yes, Aunt' said Margaret smiling. 'You are to congratulate me.'

'Oh my, Mr Lennox has finally proposed, I see.' Mrs Shaw perked up and began pouring tea. 'I am not at all surprised, you know; there were some pretty symptoms about him. I am sure I do not know why he waited so long.' She paused, tea pot in hand and looked across at the window. 'In my days, not that they were so long gone, the young men were considerably more determined in matters of the heart. I remember the dear General…'

'Oh, not Henry, mamma! Listen,' Edith's disappointment echoed across the room. 'We speak of Mr Thornton! The man Henry brought to my party the other night, on account of Mr Colthurst's visit. Margaret's tenant in Milton.'

'What of him?' Mrs Shaw's genteel brows perched high above her eyes. Margaret motioned to say something but Edith carried on, the pitch of her voice rising alarmingly:

'He has proposed, mamma! Mr Thornton has proposed to Margaret."

'What a ridiculous notion!' Mrs Shaw sipped her tea. 'You must be quite mistaken.'

Margaret found the coolness of her aunt and the excitement of her cousin ludicrous and slightly unbecoming. It has been an eventful day and it seemed the evening did not promise an alteration. She felt tired and irritable, and made a concerted effort to keep her composure calm and steady.

'What Edith says is true, Aunt. Mr Thornton proposed and I –"

'That man!' gasped Mrs Shaw. 'Preposterous! I am sure you put him in his place. What an odious affair! I am sorry for you, you must be quite put out.'

Margaret's vexation was growing, she took a moment to consider her reaction, but this short interlude seemed unbearable for Edith, for she almost jumped in her seat and cried out:

'But mamma, that's not it by half! Margaret has accepted him!'

'I beg your pardon!' Mrs Shaw frowned and her tone was sharp and icy. She fixed Margaret with a look, expecting immediate and profound refutation. Margaret met her aunt's gaze in a proud and steady manner, and replied slowly and firmly:

'As I was saying, Mr Thornton has proposed, and I have accepted him. You are to congratulate me for I am to be most happily situated'.

'Happily? I am astonished at your choice of words! The man is in trade!' Mrs Shaw almost spat the words out, as if the mere sound of them would soil her.

'Mr Thornton is a manufacturer, not a tradesman.' Her voice was cold and deliberate, her pride piqued. 'Being in trade is not offensive. You would please remember that Fred is a partner in a trading establishment. This is the future.'

'Well, not our future, I dare say!' muttered her aunt dismissively. 'It is most unfortunate that Frederick had to resort to such steps but I am sure he had little other choice. But you – a wife of a tradesman?! Such shame and degradation! What would people say! My poor sister will never forgive me.'

'I do not know that we should care so much about what people say. _I_ will not care for their opinion, if that is what they think. And I am sure mamma would have approved. She thought very highly of Mr Thornton.'

'But, Margaret, you are rich. You can do so much better.'

'Oh, aunt! I do not want to do better' Margaret's passion now raging in full force. 'I _could_ not do better. Mr Thornton is a remarkable and well-respected man. I shall marry for love. Just like Edith.'

'Oh, this talk of love is all very well, when both sides are equal in rank and situation. But this is not the case here. He is not a gentleman and from what I hear, he is broke. One cannot help but think of the peculiar timing of his declaration. I am sure –'

'Pray do not continue!' Margaret stood up, her head erect, eyes flaming with indignation. 'I shall not listen to such abuse, such despicable and unjust imputations. You do not know the man of whom you speak so harshly. I assure you, Aunt, that if there is one party to this union who is in any debt, it is I. Mr Thornton's character and integrity are beyond reproach.' Margaret's breast was heaving, her heart pounding, her voice was full of passion. 'I have made my decision. As I am of age, I do not need your consent, and I am not asking it. I shall like very much to have your blessing, but should you find yourself incapable of giving it, that would not alter my decision. I shall marry Mr Thornton. It is my wish, and I am determined on it.'

Silence filled the room. Almost instantly, Margaret regretted the harshness of her words, although not their purport, for she loved her aunt dearly and felt the natural esteem and respect arising from growing up under her tender care. Her regret was also deepened by the uneasy consciousness that, until not so long ago, such sentiments would not have been foreign to her own mind, nor would she have found the objections unfair or unreasonable. Her aunt was a good-natured and well-meaning woman, and her opinions proceeded not from malevolence or meanness, but from circumstance and situation. After some moments of uncomfortable silence, Margaret kneeled by her aunt and spoke softly:

'I am sorry I spoke to you in such manner. You are my only family now and I love you very much. Come, let's not quarrel about this. When you get to know John, you will see how generous and kind he is. He was very kind and gracious to mamma when she was ill. He is known and respected by his peers. You can ask Henry, if you want. If my eyes and mind are blinded by love, Henry's are not.'

Mrs Shaw coughed nervously, looking away from Margaret. For her part, she did not understand love, for she valued comfort and convenience above ardour and affection. But she has agreed on Edith's marrying for love, even if her choice was rather disappointing, and her good heart and compliant nature dictated that Margaret should be allowed the same. To be sure, this Mr Thornton was much older and less pleasant and congenial than Captain Lennox, but Milton was conveniently placed as to preclude frequent or extended congress. Margaret will always be welcomed here and offered the pleasant comforts and elegant society of Harley Street whenever and as often as she wished or felt the need to escape that horrid place in the north.

After some time of such deliberations, Mrs Shaw shifted uncomfortably and said, with voice even more plaintive than usual:

'Why, Margaret! You give me no choice, I see. I do not know how I would bear to see you throw yourself at a man with uncertain prospects, and to live in that dirty, smoky place again.'

'Oh dear Aunt, please do not make yourself uneasy on that account. Henry has worked out a business proposal for me and he is very confident that John will be able to regain his position very soon. And I can promise you that, whenever the dirt and smoke get too much to bear, I shall come and visit you and Edith.'

Margaret stood up and refilled her aunt's cup. Mrs Shaw took a small sip, and as she placed the cup back on the table, sighed sorrowfully:

'Poor Henry! He would be so disappointed!'

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	5. Gentlemen and Lovers

**I always thought Henry was somewhat unfairly treated. He's a decent bloke with a great sense of humour. I hate seeing him as a mere vehicle for the plot. He genuinely loved Margaret, in his own way, and I feel for him. I would love to see him happy, altho evidently that's still some time off. As to Mr Thornton, I am still caught in his emotions, but there were a few things that puzzled me and I needed to figure them out. I hope it's plausible. Italics denote original text. Happy reading!**

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Gentlemen and Lovers

Mr Thornton left Ninety-Six Harley Street for Mr Lennox's chambers. The streets were growing busy in the late afternoon. Fashionable ladies and elegant gentlemen, servants and porters, horses and carriages, street urchins, were strolling, rushing, running in all directions, each on their own little errand of business, pleasure or mischief. He navigated his route mechanically, only vaguely aware of the street buzz, his mind excited with the events just past; the delicious memory of Margaret's soft skin and silky hair lingered on his lips. He tightened his hands unconsciously as if he was still caressing her small, delicate hands, her round wrists, so tiny that he could wrap his fingers around them, her long taper digits.

The omnibus passed him but he was too excited, too full of energy, to confine himself even for the easy journey to the Temple. The brisk walk will help him master his emotions, and the cool evening breeze would clear his head for the discussions with Lennox. He tried to account for the events of the last few days, the last two hours; but all was drowned in a whirl of sensations. He had come to London to arrange the affairs of the property. He was dejected, though not defeated, broke but not broken; his strong mind and iron will exhorting him to defy his lot and look for new prospects. He had no thought of her, other than meeting her as an old friend, if the occasion arose, for his feelings, although unaltered, were mastered, and he had given her up and all thought of what it could have been. But he was mistaken and he knew it the moment he stepped into the dining room. She was magnificent – her beauty, even more sumptuous and radiant than he remembered, stunned his senses. It was a bittersweet pleasure to be in the same room with her, for her very presence soothed his soul and gave him peace, yet the reprieve would be short and would leave him ravaged and consumed. She was never more lost to him, more unattainable, than this evening, among this set, her people, of whom she seemed so much a piece. He should not have come and yet he would not have traded this agony for the world. She was dressed in the gold of kings, her coal black hair, strewn with tiny scarlet flowers, rested in a heavy coil at the apex of her neck. One small flower was tucked just above the temple, and invoked the image of a different flower, one of blood, and the day of the riot; and the sensation of her arms around his neck came back in a flash and flooded his heart with misery and pain. Was she mocking him? Taunting him? Showing him again his unworthiness? Telling him he was but a stranger here, the void between them immense and unbreachable? Nay, he would not give her the pleasure of knowing how much she had wounded him. He did not speak to her after the initial cordial greeting; and did not look at her except one brief moment during dinner; when their eyes met and he felt again a helpless captive of her bewitching power, and had to summon all his bodily strength to look away. Still, he was every instant aware of her movements. He noticed that she followed his conversation with Colthurst, as if daring him to say the truth, to admit that he has failed in business, and that he must start again, with his two hands, rebuilding everything and likely not succeeding. So much he would admit, and without compunction, but he would not give her the satisfaction of thinking him a cruel, ruthless master. He had failed not because he was ruthless but because he wasn't ruthless enough. He went to her and without preface said:

_'Miss Hale, I had a round-robin from some of my __men—I suspect in Higgins' handwriting—stating their __wish to work for me, if ever I was in a position to __employ men again on my own behalf. That was good, __w__a__sn't it?'_

_'Yes. Just right. I am glad of it,' said Margaret, __looking up straight into his face with her speaking eyes, __and then dropping them under his eloquent glance. He __gazed back at her for a minute, as if he did not know __exactly what he was about. Then sighed; and saying, 'I __knew you would like it,' he turned away, and never __spoke to her again until he bid her a formal 'good __night.'_

Sleep did not come to him that night. She came instead, in his thoughts, time after time, as a cruel goddess condemning him to a Promethean lot; as a siren seducing him with sweet song, only to repulse him in disgust; as a nymph, running away from him, choosing death over his love. He resolved to leave London that very evening, as soon as he finished the discussions with Lennox. He had to make a choice: give up his lease or relet the property. It was a question of sound business sense: the damages on the first option would run into hundreds, but it was a sure thing; the relet entailed no immediate outlay but was risky and opened him to continual liability. On the other hand, if his fortunes turned, and he was able to start on his own behalf again, he would not be able to find such favourable conditions as at present. While his mind was busy with the complex calculations of pounds, shillings and pence, his heart secretly dwelt on a much simpler, and far more chilling, arithmetic: Margaret or not. Giving up his lease meant giving up all relations to her, and his heart recoiled at the desolation this promised.

The meeting with Lennox went other than expected. Lennox came late and rather distracted. His letters had been confident that there would not be many objections to the discontinuation of the lease, but yesterday he seemed uncharacteristically inconsequent and unsure. Mr Thornton respected Lennox, felt a natural kinship with him, for he recognised a strong mind and a burning ambition, similar to his own, which undoubtedly would serve him well on his way to fortune and success. He probably would have liked him even more, had there not been the knowledge that, in one respect, the young man was already more fortunate and more successful, for he was going to claim her soon enough; or perhaps he already had, as the next appointment being fixed at Harley Street seemed to imply.

But instead of Lennox, Margaret has come, with talk about investments and saving the mill, and all he could hear were the words of his own heart, which commanded him to go to her, to hold her, to never let her go. Had she not spoken, his mind would have prevailed, but as it were, his mind was astounded, his reason stupefied, the dam was broken and his heart would be denied no longer. He reached for her and she responded, and the thought that she was his, his alone, his at last, filled his heart, his mind, his being with ecstasy and bliss. He felt invincible, and as he entered the Temple, life was good and nothing was impossible.

Mr Lennox sate in his chambers, silent and grave, engrossed in his thoughts. He loved Margaret, her beauty, her sweetness, her liveliness, and had loved her, in his quiet steady manner, since the moment he laid eyes on her, almost four years ago. He has hoped she would love him back, and despite the failure of that day in Helstone, he has worked hard to please her and gain her affection. Slowly the frost has melted and warm friendship has bloomed. He would settle for warm friendship, it was the basis from which companionship will grow. He was not one who knew strong passions, he was far too rational, and his mind and personality, naturally mild and balanced, have been further moderated by the ordered manner of his profession.

But Henry Lennox was not stupid. He saw that Margaret's interest in Milton was more than the natural curiosity or concern for friends and acquaintances. He was not sure of the extent or exact nature of her feelings; he suspected she knew not herself. He began to observe her closely. She would never inquire after anyone in particular, but when Marlborough Mill was mentioned, she would tense, her face would become somber and her eyes impenetrable. She never fully acknowledged the compliments he paid her, although she did not fail to understand his meaning. She would occasionally, when in one of her ill moods, reply in that distant, icy manner of hers, with soft words put to savage effect. And yet, lately her reliance on him has grown. He enjoyed her company and seemingly she enjoyed his. He could offer a welcomed reprieve from the silliness of Edith and the blandness of her mother. So he did not think anything of inviting Thornton to Edith's dinner. But the evening left him uneasy. They had hardly spoken, but Margaret's quietness betrayed well-concealed agitation and there was something on Thornton's side – a look, a sigh – that unsettled Henry exceedingly. Whatever doubts he had were quashed yesterday. Margaret wanted to help Marlborough Mills, and although she talked about the livelihood of the workers, and her moral duty as a landlord to preserve it, if she can, he could not shake off the feeling that her chief motivation was not declared. She was firm, almost petulant in her insistence, that he worked out an agreement that would enable Thornton to continue his business.

He felt all slipping away from him. He decided to put it to the touch and hope it would come to the good. If he did not keep the appointment today, Thornton would come to look for him, and how soon he came would tell him whether the gamble has paid off. An hour passed, and then another, and with every other minute, disappointment and frustration settled into Henry's mind and heart, and when Mr Thornton finally walked in, a little before five o'clock, he knew he had lost her.

The men shook hands and, in one brief discerning look, reached a silent understanding. One has gained and one has lost, and there was nothing to be done.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Thornton, for not keeping to appointment. You met with Miss Hale?'

'I did, Mr Lennox. Miss Hale informed me of the proposal. I am come to you to discuss the details.'

The gentlemen sat down and focused on business.

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	6. That Woman!

**Ok, Mrs Thornton's turn now. This turned out more difficult than expected -- the lady is not to be trifled with. ;) I am not sure this chapter is finished/complete, but I have to move on coz the story is not going to wait for me. I am publishing as it is, waiting for your thoughts and comments. Brace yourselves. LOL**

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It was a hot August afternoon in Milton and the air was thick and humid. The scorching sun had baked the dust into parched red cakes. The tall, imposing woman, in a solemn black dress, turned the corner of Marlborough Street with a measured, determined step. The street was pleasantly calm, the sky unusually blue, but the absence of movement and smoke weighed on her like a sentence. Mrs Thornton was not a woman to rue the past; but as she faced the long empty street, she rued the future. Her poor boy! The toils and exertions of the last nineteen years have come to naught. Long arduous years stretched ahead, standing menacingly between him and his rightful place. John Thornton of Milton will be again, she doubted not, her belief in him unassailable, but it will be a trying and treacherous path. How much more suffering is there for him in this world!? She had no thought of herself for she was a simple extension of her son, the only support he had left; the only one he ever had. She and her son were the two halves of one whole, tough as a nut. His fortunes were her fortunes; his life - her life.

She reached the mill at the end of the street. There was no lodge-keeper now, so she pushed the heavy door herself and walked into the yard. It was as if time stood still – bales of cotton, carts, wooden crates, scattered, deserted, engulfed in an eerie silence. Her ears ached for the clank of the machines, the roar of the steam-engine. The mill was her pride and joy, the source of her son's wealth and success, and its present sordid state aggrieved her excessively. As she crossed the yard, something – was it the heavy air? the portend emptiness? the deafening silence? – brought back the memory of the strike two years ago, the start of the present troubles, and the day of the riot. That silly girl and her airs and graces! And to think that he had to go to her, that she'd know of his misfortunes! How she would triumph!

The thought of Margaret's relish was too much for Mrs Thornton. She picked up her step and headed for the house at the opposite end of the yard. Most of the servants were gone; she retained only a cook and a maid, and obtained good positions for the rest elsewhere. The cool air inside made the imposing building feel cavernous and ghoulish. She walked slowly to the drawing-room and her eyes swept mournfully over the palatial furniture, the rich carpets, the alabaster ornaments – she'll have to organize a sale soon, and look for a smaller house. John said they will not be short of comforts, and the good Lord knows the two of them did not need much, but the indignity of it all provoked her greatly. Mrs Thornton's breast filled with helpless rage at the injustice of it all. It was just as well that Fanny was settled – she couldn't bear Fanny now. Mrs Thornton loved her daughter, but she did not feel her; the girl was too much like her father – impulsive, emotional, with weak senses. Fanny was too little to remember the misery after her father's failure; John had to bear it all, and he did bear it without a grumble; a good son he was, and a fine man. And yet again, he'll have to bear it all and her daughter was spared. Fanny lived an idle and careless life; what has she done to deserve her comfort and situation? John would be 35 in a summer or two, he should be settling down, become a husband, a father… Who would have him now? Who would share a life with a penniless man?

Mrs Thornton entered the dining-room and sate dejectedly in her chair. If only John had bought into Watson's scheme – it would have never come to this; his position would have been redeemed and no one would have known. In his place, she would have risked it all. But her son was strong-willed. He was determined not to repeat his father's mistake. She hailed him for it, for they can hold their heads high. There are no debts to pay, no shame to cleanse. And yet, it was a cold comfort! She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She was so very tired.

The sound of the mill gate opening interrupted her slumber – John was home at last. It was almost dark and she hurried to light some candles. She picked up her worsted-work, struggling not to give in to the dread that filled her entire being. Any minute now he would come in with the confirmation that it was all over.

She heard him bolt the door and climb the stairs. Something in the way he walked, his pace, jolted her senses – his step was light and confident. What did this mean? She saw the smile on his face as he entered the room; he looked younger, walked taller, exuded energy. It was her son of old. A silent greeting passed between them. She was confounded by his countenance and managed only a curt 'Well?' and one of her enquiring looks.

'Good news, mother.' He smiled and approached to kiss her. 'The mill is safe. I have a loan, on very favourable conditions, that will enable us to resume work immediately. We'll be soon recovered.'

'How?' Mrs Thornton's voice betrayed both hope and incredulity. 'Who?'

'Miss Hale has extended us the money.'

'Miss Hale?'

'Yes. I met Miss Hale to give up the lease. She offered us a loan. I was as surprised as you are now, mother. I discussed the details with her lawyer, Mr Lennox, and we have reached a very favourable agreement. Marlborought Mills will flourish in no time.'

Mrs Thornton sunk back in her chair. For a while she did not move, did not look at her son. Her mind was racing. What was the meaning of this? A loan would save her son, would redeem him, but to think that he'd have to own all to her! Oh, it's unbearable, unbearable! – Why would she not just go away? What is she about, this girl? Is she trying to lure him back into – surely she can't – he can't – can he? Mrs Thornton tried to push the thought away. She looked at her son searchingly, and at length asked carefully, her voice cracked and uneven:

'Is that all you have to tell me, John?'

'No, that's not all' said her son gently, kneeling by her char and smiling softly. Mrs Thornton leaned back, her body rigid with some unknown great dread. Her eyes dilated a little; her hand grasped the chair for support and her mind bent on what he was going to say. His voice came awash with tender regard and affection:

'She loves me, mother! She cares for me!'

The words hit Mrs Thornton squarely in the chest, compressing her lungs, squeezing every last breath out of her. Her heart convulsed and shattered into million pieces, each an angry jagged blade.

'Can you love her, dearest mother, like you love me?'

She looked at him, but could not see him; her face barren, frozen in the wastelands of her destitution. She has finally taken him away me!

'What are you saying, John?' Her voice was cold and expressionless.

'I love her. I am going to marry her. I ask your blessing.'

'Marry her?' The words jolted Mrs Thornton out of her despair. Oh, no! She will not give him up; she will fight for her son. The image of Margaret came in Mrs Thornton's mind and fed her rage.

'That woman! No, John, it will not do. Marry a tainted woman! Have you lost your senses?'

Tainted! The word jabbed him, his eyes flared, his voice came low and raspy.

'She's not tainted, mother. It was her brother at the station, not a lover.'

'What brother? Humph! That's what she's told you, he? What son would skulk away while his mother lay dead and unburied? I do not believe it, John.'

'Mother, do not dare!' John stood up abruptly, his figure swelled with fury.

'Nay, John! You can be angry with me. But I cannot stand aside silent when my son, my John, throws himself at a fanciful and whimsical girl. She seems to think your reason went up with the last smoke.'

'Mother, I will not have Margaret spoken of in that manner. I cannot tell you particulars, I chose not to tell them, but I know she is pure.'

'You ask me to love her like a daughter and yet you choose not to explain her behaviour. You ask a lot.'

'I choose not to speak of it, because, as a magistrate, I better not speak of it.'

'What say you now?' Mrs Thornton's anger gave way to fear. 'What have you gotten yourself into?'

'I have not gotten myself into anything. However, I will tell you is this: The brother was a sailor and a mutineer. That is why never mention him. He visited Mrs Hale -- for she felt her end was near and she wanted to see him one last time. He came in secret and had to leave before the funeral for fear of being recognised by this Leonards man, Betsy's fiance. It was the brother with whom Margaret was seen at the station. Different parts of this story have been independently confirmed by two people. As a man, I am satisfied there is nothing inappropriatein Margaret's behaviour. But as I am also a magistrate, I already know too much. I shall say nothing more on the subject.'

'But what if it gets out?'

'I do not see how it can get out. Fortunately, noone in Milton knows of a brother, except me and Nicholas Higgins who however doesn't now about the mutiny. The only person who could do damage is Leonards and he is dead.'

'But what if he has told Betsy?'

'I don't think he did or we would have heard of it by now.'

At length Mrs Thornton said with great sadness:

'Son John, think again. Do not let gratitude blind you. We can find the money elsewhere. She changed her mind once, she can change it again. I shall not bear to see you scorned again. I will not have you pay that price. '

'Oh, mother, you know not how I love her. I barely know myself. This beating heart in my chest is dead without her. I am grateful to her because she makes me feel alive and young again.'

'But what would people say? Here is John Thornton, who married for money, a woman who has been seen late at night with another man. They will drag your name through the mud! And you won't be able to defend yourself, if this brother is not to be spoken of.'

'I do not care what people say.'

'But you should, if not for your sake, for hers. Her name will be the tittle-tattle of Milton.'

'Be easy, mother. It was long ago, not many people will remember.'

'Humph! The Porters would, you can count on it.'

'Ah, yes, the Porters. Maybe we can ask Fan to put in a good word for us there. She seems to be in their good books.' He laughed softly. 'Do not worry, mother. I'll think of something. Come, let's have something to eat. I have not eaten today and I don't think you have either. There is so much I have to tell you. I have great plans for the mill and I need my mother's wise words.'

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	7. A Mother's Heart

**Mrs Thornton redux. The poor woman is between a rock and a hard place! **

**Enjoy!**

**PS If someone can tell me how to make indented text (for the letter below), I would be much obliged.**

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**Chapter VII**

**MOTHER AND SON**

After dinner, Mr Thornton bade his mother good-night and retired to his bed-chamber. He slowly crossed the room towards the open window, uncuffing his shirt and rolling his stiff shoulders. His head was buzzing; the future, the mill, Margaret entwined in a cacophony of thoughts, plans and emotions, each staking a momentary claim upon his weary mind, only to be pushed aside and replaced by another. The soft air and the stillness of the night welcomed him. How different the silence felt upon his senses now! What a difference a few days made!

He had promised Margaret to write that very evening. He was a little surprised by her eager entreaty, her qualms about his mother's reaction – but it signified little as he would not deny himself the pleasure of writing to her, for it made him feel closer to her. He sate at his desk and – the blank sheets stared ominously at him. How was he to start? He's never written such a letter before; what ought a lover to say? What is the appropriate tone? There was so much he wanted to tell her but would it not be too direct? He always felt the awkward talking to ladies and he found writing not easier. Nay, he'll write what he felt, and trust she would understand.

_Dearest Margaret,_

_My love,_

_for such you are and I will, with your permission, always call you. __As an ever willing slave to your wishes, I make haste to write that I have spoken to my mother. I fear I have to disappoint you by reporting that there were not many of what could be referred to as 'indignant tones'. I suspect my mother is mightily relieved someone would have me at all, for now that I am penniless and graying, the stream of young ladies coming to Marlborough Mills is somewhat dried up (you have not changed your mind, have you, dearest?) – But in earnest, my mother is not one to show many feelings, but she is delighted that I have found such perfect happiness and peace at last. She sends her regards, and wishes me to tell you that she hopes very much to see you at the earliest. I am sure Fanny shall be pleased if you accepted to stay with her when you visit – for you will visit soon, won't you, love? It has been mere hours since we parted, but I can hardly bear the separation. Having you so close to my heart and yet so far away is a torture I do not know how I shall endure. I cannot wait for the day when we shall be together and I shall call you mine, not only in the privacy of my heart, but for the whole world to see._

_I shall write again tomorrow, and in more details. But for now, my precious pearl, please believe me when I say that I am, and always will be, _

_most affectionately yours,_

_JT _

Suddenly, there was a quiet knock on the door and Mrs Thornton came in quietly.

'John, are you yet in bed?'

'Not yet. Are you well, mother?'

'Yes, I am well. I am come for something else.' Her voice was quiet, almost melancholic; her composure was resigned but firm. 'Here, I want you to have this – for Miss Hale.' Mrs Thornton produced a small box.

'For Margaret?' Mr Thornton was surprised and opened the box gingerly. After some moments of curious examination, a look of recognition broke onto his face, and then, as the memories flooded in, his composure contorted into a mixture of pleasure and pain and he said pensively:

'I remember this ring from when I was a little boy.'

'This is the ring your father gave me when he asked my hand.'

'I thought it was sold with all the rest. You never wore it after we left Milton.'

'That's because I did not have it half the time. Served us well, this ring; saved many a desperate day. This ring and the watch were the last things left after your father. When we moved, I made a promise that – if we ever got out of there alive – my son's wife would have it, as a token of his worth and a reminder to love and honour him as is his due.'

'It is beautiful. I always liked it.' Mr Thornton's heart was full of tender emotion. The ring was of old workmanship; two stones – a red and a white – surrounded with clusters of smaller stones, set on a simple band of silver and gold. 'This stone represented father, this one you, and the little ones were the children.'

'You remember! Rubies for love, diamonds for strength, your father said.' Mrs Thornton smiled sadly. 'Not much of either in him, Lord have mercy on his soul, but always one for flair.'

'Love and strength. My father chose wisely for it suits you perfectly' said Mr Thornton, caressing the ring. 'I never knew how you managed.'

'Why, I had no choice, John. I had to manage, for our sakes, for you, for Fanny. My faith was strong; "_The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away_". And I was rewarded for my faith and courage. The Lord had taken my husband but given me a son and it is a blessing to see the man my son has become.'

'I would have never been the man I am without you, mother.'

'You are a man, and yet, to me you are my boy. Come sit by me. Indulge your old mother for a minute.' Mr Thornton sate next to his mother on the bed. His mother looked around for a moment, and then determined began. 'I was very young when I met your father. He was very handsome; a dashing, daring young man. He was very different from everyone else I knew. I was hopelessly and passionately in love. My father did not approve of the match but he loved me very much and could not deny me. He tried to talk to me, but I would not listen. I remember declaring I would rather eat porridge for the rest of my days than live without George Thornton.' Mrs Thornton laughed quietly. 'Little did I know then how I would be punished for this insolence!'

Mrs Thornton took her son's hand between hers and continued in an urgent but gentle manner.

'You are like me. You are in love and there is nothing I can tell you that will make you change your mind. And I know you cannot undo what is done. But rush not, take your time to get to know Miss Hale better. Consider, she is yet young, she may change. Her life has been turned many a times. She was not happy in Milton and we do not know what has happened to her after she left. And even here we hardly knew her, and what we saw – (Mrs Thornton stopped short and added after some consideration) – She has beauty; she has glamour, she is pungent and opinionated. You do not see many such girls in Milton. You love her because she is different. But differences are obstacles to a good marriage. Similarity in values and understanding is what makes a marriage happy and successful, that or a compliant woman. There are not many similarities between you and Miss Hale, and she is anything but compliant. Your life has been hard enough already; you do not need to make it harder by your own hand. I shan't bear seeing you regret your decision.'

'I shall never regret marrying Margaret.'

'I hope and pray with all my heart that you are right and that she deserves you.'

'I have always tried to be a good son to you, mother. And she'll make a good daughter for you.'

'I do not want a good daughter for myself. I want a good wife for my son.'

'It is one and the same to me. To be a good wife to me, she has to be a good daughter to my mother, and a good sister to Fanny. And Margaret will be all these things. Look, mother, I know love can make a fool of any a man and I do love Margaret madly and senselessly. But she is good and pure, and makes me want to be a better man. I beg of you, close not your heart to her. Give her a chance to show you her worth.'

'I will try for your sake, John. But I can promise no more.'

'I ask no more. Thank you, mother!' He kissed her hand. 'It will come all good, you'll see.'

'Yes, we'll see.' Mrs Thornton voice echoed gravely, but not defiantly. After another moment of silent contemplation, she bade her son good-night, kissed him on the forehead and exited the room.

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	8. TittleTattle

**Chapter VIII**

**Tittle-Tattle**

Fanny Watson was in a good mood. She was examining her reflection in the looking-glass in her parlour and liked what she saw. Her silk dressing gown was embroidered with Oriental flowers and birds; little explosions of colours against the delicate ivory background. She had danced all night, it was past 3 o'clock when she finally crawled into bed. It was a capital party, although not quite the success hers were – she reflected with unrestrained glee – but the Porters always tried.

She liked her new life. She had everything she wanted without having to listen to disdainful comments from her mother or brother. Tobias was an attentive husband, perhaps a little too attentive, when he was at home, but that was not often, and he always brought her a gift upon his return, which amply compensated for any attention she had to endure. The Watsons were a big family, one of the first in Milton, and there always were some functions to be attended, parties given, dinners eaten, holidays taken, people coming and going in a ceaseless flux. Tobias loved to show his wealth, and there was much to show after the success of his latest speculation, and Fanny was only too happy to oblige him.

Last night she had worn the new dress especially ordered from London, the latest fashion from France. The bodice was elongated at the front and the skirt flared on the sides – the most beautiful curves and ripples in Milton, she was sure – but most cleverly, the design gave her the appearance of a tiny waist without having to tighten the corset too much; for she had delicate constitution and suffered terribly in the hot weather. She was quite sure there were sighs as she took a turn about the Porter's dancing hall. And her dear Tobias has promised the latest invention in fashion -- what did he call it? a 'cage'? – that would dispense with the petticoats altogether and would make the Porters eat their hearts out.

'Good morning ma'am!' Jane entered the room with a jug of steaming water.

'Here, Jane. My poor feet need a good soak this morning. I'm exhausted. What time is it?'

'Just past eleven, ma'am. Have you heard the news, ma'am? Master is getting married.'

'Who?'

'I beg your pardon, ma'am. I can never remember not call him 'master' anymore. Mr. Thornton.'

'John? My brother? Married?'

'Aye, ma'am. Nellie brought the news this morning from her sister at Woolmers, who had it from Betsy's husband, who knows it from Betsy, and Betsy knows it from Sarah, for you know them two were always very thick.'

'And how pray does Sarah know?'

'Sarah's heard it from Mr Thornton; that is she heard master telling mistress. Right after he came home.'

'Really?' Fanny's curiosity was piqued.

'Aye, ma'am. And Mrs Thornton was not best pleased, ma'am.'

'My mother will never bear it, that's sure! Her precious John married. Ha! I have to go and see her directly. Leave the water. Help me dress. Quick! – Who is he marrying?'

'Miss Hale, ma'am.'

'Miss Hale?' Fanny jumped and almost dropped her gown.

'Yes, ma'am. The lady from the South, who lived here few years ago.'

'I know who Miss Hale is, you silly woman! But that's impossible. She left months before I got married. -- I know she always had eyes for John. It was plain for all to see. And he too, despite all his protestations. But she's a bit late now, for he hasn't got a penny left, the fool. He should have listened to me and my dear Watson. We would have made him a fortune. She is sure to change her mind as soon as she hears. I say, she doesn't know that he failed.'

'But she's rich, ma'am, is she not?'

'Rich? Her? Oh, no' – Fanny's squeaky voice rose to a feverish pitch. 'They have never been rich; her father was a parson. Their house in Crampton was the tiniest of places; barely room to sit mamma and me. Their sitting room was at least twenty times smaller than the one at Marlborough Mills, which is smaller than the one here, and very plain, too – not a mirror in sight.'

'But her folks when they came to take Miss Hale away, were very grand. The lady was very smartly dressed.'

At this moment Nellie came to announce that Mr Thornton was waiting downstairs. Fanny robed herself quickly and ran downstairs, bursting into the room and without greeting her brother, began:

'Ah, speaking of the devil! You won't believe what I just heard!'

'Probably not.' He folded his newspaper calmly and rose to kiss Fanny on the cheek. 'What did you hear, little sister?'

'Oh my, you must be in a very good mood, indeed! A kiss! I can't remember when you last gave me a kiss. It must have been – ages!'

'Now, now, I am sure I gave you one when I handed you off to Watson,' Mr Thornton smiled warmly, 'How are you, Fan?'

'Oh, I'm exhausted. This weather is most taxing. It is so hot; I can hardly breathe.' Fanny slumped on her easy chair.

'You should rest more then.'

'I wish I could, but there are so many things to attend to!'

'Must you attend to all of them?'

'Of course I must! How else do you think one maintains one's position in society! It doesn't happen on its own, you know! – Anyway, I hear congratulations are in order.'

'Has mother already called?' Mr Thornton was surprised.

'Mother? Oh no! If I relied on you and mother, I would never know a thing. You two never tell me a thing! I'm sure I'm the last person in Milton to hear of any news.'

'_That_ cannot be true. Look – here I am come to tell you the news myself and I'm already late.'

'Nothing stays secret in this town, dear brother. So it is true that you are getting married! Can you afford to? – Don't look at me like that! It is the most natural of questions, for you can't have much and you turned Hamper down.'

Mr Thornton was shocked and hurt by the intentional malice in his sister's words, but did not want to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging it, so he pushed it aside and replied with a smile:

'Well, it seems there is something _I_ can tell _you_. I am able to keep the lease and, in fact, I'm going to open the mill again.'

'Congratulations! With Miss Hale's money, I presume!'

'We have arranged for a loan, yes.'

'A loan? How droll! Come John, it all becomes yours after she marries you. It seems you and I are not so different, after all. We both found money the chief attraction in matrimony.'

Mr Thornton expression clouded and his eyes glowed with anger. His sister shifted a little in her chair and picked up a candlestick from the side table, as if looking for protection. He willed himself to soften a bit, there was no use getting angry with her, but his voice was strained.

'This is not true.'

'Well! Don't tell me you marry her for love!' Fanny laughed nervously. 'Mind you, she always wanted you! Remember the spectacle she made of herself the day we almost got murdered by the mob?! If you loved her so much, you ought to have married her then!'

'That's enough now!' Mr Thornton's voice assumed commanding tone.

Fanny made a face and pouted but did not reply. Mr Thornton stood up and walked to the window. He was rattled by his sister's words. He focused on the people on the street in an attempt to control his anger.

'Anyway, how does mother bear the news?' asked Fanny after some time.

'Better than you seem to expect', replied her brother testily.

'Mother shan't give you up, you know. You better prepare Miss Hale.'

'Frances, don't talk of mother that way!' He turned sharply to her, his frame distended with a terrifying effect.

'You can't tell me what to do anymore!' Fanny jumped, clutching the candlestick, her voice almost hysterical. 'I'm my own woman now.'

Mr Thornton closed his eyes, shook his head and looked again through the window. He will control his temper. After a while he spoke without looking at her; his voice cold and strained:

'Shall you visit mother today?'

'I don't know. I can't bear this heat'.

He began to say something, but then changed his mind and instead headed for the door.

'I better leave now. Give my regards to Watson. Good-day.'

'How was Fanny?' asked Mrs Thornton later that night.

'More venomous than ever', replied her son with in a low voice.

'What did she say now?'

'Nothing! It is not important!' Mr Thornton shook his head and added pensively. 'But you were right, mother. Nothing stays secret in Milton.'

----

**Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.**


	9. Ever Thine, Ever Mine

_My misery with the formatting of the text continues but I hope that it won't be too difficult to read. The poems are by Elizabeth Browning (1&3), Robert Burns (2) and Alexander Brome (4)._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Chapter IX**

**Ever Thine, Ever Mine…**

96, Harley Street, London

-- Aug 1853

Dearest John,

My heart skips a beat as I write your beloved name. I thought this moment will never be, when I can call you my very own, my heart's dearest, my John. Thank you for your most affectionate letter. I am most grateful to Mrs Thornton for her generosity, as decidedly unworthy of it as I am, and I most sincerely assure her that I'll do my all to make her son happy and deserve his love. I thank her for the kind invitation, and Mrs Watson for her hospitable offer; and would love to have the pleasure of their company as soon as Aunt has given the dinner in your honour. Would Tuesday a fortnight suit your plans? I can hardly wait to tell the world how happy you have made me. I only wish dear papa and mama could be here; they would have been so proud, and papa especially, as you were such a dear friend to him, and in many ways, if I may say so, he looked upon you as the son he lost. And Frederick – how I wish to introduce him to you! He was greatly vexed and disheartened that circumstances prevented him from thanking you for your friendship & kindness to us all. He is my only family now and he's so far away! Sometimes I think I'll never see him again – but I try to be cheerful for his sake; he is happy and safe and that is the most important thing. – Aunt has worked herself and Edith in a frightful state over the dinner; _what_ did you tell her? All they talk about is the menu, table settings, and the guest list; I believe they are as excited as when Edith got married; and I am in a most serious jeopardy of being overwhelmed. – Oh how I long to see you, John! I repeat your name over and over again. I have read your letter at least an hundred times, and I have upset Edith, for I wouldn't let her read it. She is so impertinent at times, just like a little girl! She is always accusing me of not loving her enough and for the first time she is right. My heart belongs to you, and you alone! I think of you all the time. I hold the letter and imagine your sitting at the dining table writing it. I repeat it to myself, line by line, each word so sweet and precious (even the saucy ones that make me blush). By and by, I give you leave to call me to your heart's content as long as it is agreeable to my beauty and qualities, for I am sure you will soon ascertain how little I possess of either. And pray do not tease me in such horrid manner, for I have not changed my mind and never will! I love you, and have loved you for so long, and want to be yours before God and man, for eternity. Please write soon to the one

most tenderly and lovingly yours,

MH

PS Did I tell you that I loved you? mh

* * *

M'borough Mills, Milton

-- Aug 1853

My dearest, sweetest Margaret,

My heart swells with tender passion at the sight of my name written by your delicate hand. Tuesday fortnight cannot come soon enough! I shall not say what I told Mrs Shaw but I'd gladly eat the entire dinner myself, and ask for seconds, if it would make the good lady more inclined to let me take you to Milton. – Went to my sister's this morning; but the news had reached her already! It must have been one of the servants. I almost lost my temper – for I admit I have one – and left her early, for fear of doing something regrettable. Against all my best intentions and efforts, she can bring the worst out of me; and without much effort, too. I have always tried to do right by her but I've failed her, and at times I wonder if she likes me at all. – Still, the rest of the day was much better spent. Called at the Mart and the Exchange; the news from there make me cautiously optimistic about securing several orders; in spite of the sluggish demand. The market is not yet recovered from the failure of the American houses last winter but there are other opportunities, in particular as we appear to be heading towards another engagement abroad. I shall start the mill slowly; with a few of my foremen and Higgins's round-robin, for I have learnt my lessons with the Irish. We need to keep the costs down and ensure that we recover the capital invested in the machinery. – I write to you in my room, love; your father's book is on my desk, and the precious note it came with; the only thing that assured me that the last two years have not been a dream; that an angel came into my life, unworthy as I was of her, and made me see myself in ways humble and unknown thus far. How many nights did I spend looking at this scrap of paper! How I imagined caressing the small soft hand which wrote it and wishing I could take the slender fingers to my lips and kiss them slowly, one by one! Oh, Margaret! You needn't pledge to my mother for you have already fulfilled your pledge. You broke me and you made me anew, a better man, a happy man. You showed me marks and features in my character unknown before, and eve if you censured my declaration once before, I shall declare it again, as it is even more so now than then, that all the gladness in life and the pride of honest work I owe, and shall henceforth forever owe, to you, my love. – Please forgive me for I haste to send this with the last post, and until I write tomorrow, I remain

most ardently yours,

JT

PS I'm not sure; tell me again. jt

* * *

96, Harley Street, London

-- Aug 1853

My darling John,

I woke up this morning and your letter was waiting for me. What a delightful surprise! My heart was going to burst with excitement; I could barely contain myself; I'm still so excited, my hand won't keep steady as I write. – Surely you cannot be reproached for your conduct towards your family. Whatever Mrs Watson said, must have been brought about by the suddenness of the intelligence. Do not judge her too harshly; we younger sisters may, in the passion of the moment, speak thoughtlessly; but we mean no harm. I'm sure true regret would soon atone for whatever words were spoken in haste. – War is a dreadful thing! I do not see how any good can come of it, and profiting of other people's misfortunes is unchristian and most objectionable. If only men were to expend the same energy in finding a common understanding as they do in avoiding it, there would be a lot less suffering in the world! Surely even the Russians can be brought to reason, even if Henry says they are rather wild and godless people. Edith is on pins and needles about Capt. Lennox being sent; despite all the assurances the gentlemen provide to the contrary. – Henry has not been himself lately. He seldom speaks and when he does, he is rather subdued and without his usual wit. I wish I knew what troubled him; for he's been such a good friend to Fred and me. But he was very warm and sincere in his congratulations and wished us every joy and happiness. (I am sure that Edith told him, she is such a gossip, although she stubbornly denies it.) – The dinner preparations have escalated to a crescendo and I fear I may not last to enjoy the event. I am not consulted, except re: your likes and dislikes, and to add insult to injury, I am not believed when I profess my ignorance. It is curious, is it not, that we can feel so close to one another, like two halves of a whole, and yet know nothing of such little everyday points? Do you have a favourite food, or colour? I like raspberry jam a lot, and my favourite colour is yellow, like the roses in Helstone. – Edith and I have taken to a new hobby; it is called scrap-booking, which is really a fancy name for a keeping a remembrance book. Edith's friend Helen Gibson has just shown us her scraps – very _froufrou_ – and Edith is determined that we make ours as well. I have already put in mine your letter and have pressed the roses you gave me (and I hope you don't think me coarse and impertinent when I say that I would like very much to pay you for some more). – I am counting the days, my darling, until I see you again. Please do not think badly of my letters, short and poorly written as they are, as I know not how much one ought to write; and I fear I'm already taking too much of your precious time with trivia and girlish silliness. But I want to hear from you and learn more of your plans for the mill, so please do write soon to the one

eagerly & lovingly awaiting your letters,

MH

PS: Had I any talent in poetry, I would have written the below for you. mh

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. _

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height _

_My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight _

_For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. _

_I love thee to the level of everyday's _

_Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. _

_I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; _

_I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. _

_I love thee with the passion put to use _

_In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. _

_I love thee with a love I seemed to lose _

_With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, _

_Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, _

_I shall but love thee better after death._

* * *

M'borough Mills, Milton

-- Sep 1853

My Sweet and Precious Pearl,

I fear I do not have your sunny predisposition, nor your forbearance and patience, for my sister's shenanigans rub me to the core. Fanny has not many redeeming qualities and is unlikely to acquire any in the future, chiefly because she does not care to apply herself. She seldom regrets anything but the loss of some trinket or other. All she ever did was spend and idle, and I'm rather obliged to old Watson for getting her off my hands. But she was my responsibility so her failures are mine. I was too busy with business, and satisfying Fanny's every whim was easier than showing her the true kindness of companionship. Perhaps things would have been different, had she known sisterly affection, for women are always better than men with matters of the heart. But what is done is done, and I shall reap the bitter fruits without much grumbling. – War, dreadful as it is, is very good for business. The hard reality is that there is always suffering, and when it comes to business, it is best to operate under sound economic principles and not under any moral laws. I know we'll disagree on this, my pet, and I think I already know how indignant you shall be of my position, but I cannot be liable for what happens to my products once my customers have taken possession of them. My responsibility is to make good, reliable products and sell them at profit to keep up the business. We shall have to wait and see the developments in the next few months but I say war is inevitable. However, Corfu is quite a distance from the Crimea so I would imagine there is little cause for concern on Mrs Lennox's side. – As to Lennox, I cannot speak for him but I shan't be surprised if he did not hear the news but rather deduced it himself. He is a very discerning young man. As to his 'troubles', as you call them, I can only conjecture about the cause, and I believe it to be a disappointment of the heart. You do not have to tell me and I do _not _wish to know anything more than what I was told some time ago, which was that he had taken an interest in you; and if that were to be the case, his hopes would have had to come now to a bitter end. Women are often said to suffer a great deal when disappointed in love, but a man, regardless how strong-willed and cool-headed he is in other matters, suffers no less violently when his affections are not returned, for in addition to his broken heart, a man must deal with his injured pride. But Lennox strikes me as a sensible and cool-headed man, free from uncontrollable passions and excessive pride, and those qualities will help him overcome his disappointment, if indeed that was the cause. And there, we shall discuss no more of Lennox's affairs. – I have been following some developments in America in an attempt to assess the opportunities there. Their domestic supply is insufficient and they seek to import; but they demand low price at expense of quality and I would rather not engage the name of M. Mills on such a premise. In general, the Americans are too risky for my liking. A country based on ceaseless exploitation of opportunities is prone to volatility in extremes – both in the rise and fall of their fortunes – which is very much like speculation is, and therefore requires constant attention; something I learnt to my cost. However, if I can find way to exploit the opportunities on the rises while limiting the extremes of the falls, it would be a capital place to invest. But, as I said, this would require some effort and free capital that could be thus risked, and would therefore have to wait until after our main business here at home has picked up to a steady and secure level. – I have complete confidence in Mrs Shaw's menu. I'm not a dainty eater and I'll eat anything as long as it is dead, hung and cooked. But to oblige the good ladies, I'll say that I do not care much for mushrooms and I am yet to discover something more loathsome than _crème d'asperges_. I like very much mulberries and chestnuts. As a little child, I spent a lot of time climbing the mulberry trees in the garden and eating the fruit by the handful. Mother was not best pleased for many a shirt was ruined, and I got once or twice a rather nasty flogging from my father for ruining my Sunday best. In the autumn we roasted chestnuts and I sate with Fanny and picked the biggest chestnuts for her, and peeled them while still scalding hot, and she'd blow on my hands so they wouldn't get burnt. It's almost chestnut season now; I'll roast you some when you come; they are delicious. – Alas! I have no more roses but I could not refuse your offer (and I hope it won't be your last); I'll search for something worthy of your book. I sincerely hope, my darling, that you would find yourself at ease to write to me as often, as much and on what ever matter as your heart and mind desire. Your letters bring me such peace and happiness that words cannot do them justice. I longingly wait for your next letter and remain,

Yours ever loving,

JT

PS. I would also borrow the poet's skill, for I cannot do you justice otherwise. jt

_O MY Luve's like a red, red rose _

_That's newly sprung in June: _

_O my Luve's like the melodie _

_That's sweetly play'd in tune! _

_As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, _

_So deep in love am I: _

_And I will love thee still, my dear, _

_Till a' the seas gang dry: _

_Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, _

_And the rocks melt with the sun; _

_I will luve thee still my dear, _

_When the sands of life shall run. _

_And fare thee weel, my only Luve, _

_And fare thee weel a while! _

_And I will come again , my Luve, _

_Tho' it were ten thousand mile. _

* * *

96, Harley Street, London

-- Sep 1853

My beloved John,

Please forgive me the liberty I take in saying that I cannot bear seeing you reproach yourself about your conduct towards Mrs Watson. I beg you do not! No one could ever say that you have not been a good and kind brother and that you have not fulfilled your obligations with care and affection. Brothers and sisters may not always see eye to eye, and while Mrs Watson's fortune in having a most dutiful and obliging brother will deny her the perspective of someone who has been deprived of brotherly affection, you can nevertheless be sure that the ties of blood and kindred love are stronger than any disagreement, and will heal any disappointment. I have always wanted to have a sister and I hope that soon Mrs Watson would have not only an excellent brother but a very good sister as well. However, I will be mortified to think that I am the cause of any disagreement between you and her. Pray, if not for your sake, then for mine, do not let it be so. I shan't rest to think that my visit will cause any discomfiture to Mrs Watson's household; I'm sure that there are some perfectly good establishments which can offer adequate comforts to myself and Dixon. I care little where I stay as long as I am close to you. – And while we are at the topic of brothers and sisters, I received the most wonderful news this morning. Frederick and Dolores are expecting their first baby. I am so excited at the prospect of a little baby Hale! Mama and papa would have been so happy! I am sure that, wherever they are, they are smiling upon my dear brother. And as to my being an aunt, I cannot express my delight. Would I ever see my nephew or niece? And yet, I console myself that this would have never been possible in England. – Your dislike of asparagus caused quite a commotion. I'm afraid that Aunt had planned the offending vegetable into the menu as it is quite _de rigeur _for the occasion. I'm confidently informed that the French serve asparagus in all courses of their engagement dinners. My Aunt was in quite a state but it's all been resolved as I write, and you shan't see a sliver of the repulsive thing. – Edith is constantly fussing about my dress. Our likes are so very different that they are almost opposite. All my choices are too plain for her. She'll have me from head to toe in lace, bows and ribbons! I'm in very real danger of ending up like a pea-hen dressed for dinner. – It will probably surprise you that I do not think anyone can be expected to be ultimately responsible for the use of the product of their labours but nonetheless I think this should not be used as an excuse to relinquish the moral responsibility of the manufacturer altogether. To your beloved northern independence this will probably come as too much of a southern paternalism, but surely it is one's Christian duty to prevent the suffering and misfortunes of others whenever and however one can. Still, do not find me impertinent; I do not wish to argue over things I know so little about. – Only a week left now. Can you not come few days earlier? Is there not something you need to discuss with Henry or some other business to arrange? I can hardly wait to see you. This letter-writing business is so unsatisfactory. There are so many things I dare not write. Please come soon and write sooner to the one

Most adorlingly and yearningly yours,

MH

PS

_If thou must love me, let it be for nought_

_Except for love's sake only. Do not say_

_"I love her for her smile--her look--her way_

_Of speaking gently,--for a trick of thought_

_That falls in well with mine, and certes brought_

_A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"--_

_For these things in themselves, Beloved, may_

_Be changed, or change for thee,--and love, so wrought,_

_May be unwrought so. Neither love me for_

_Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,--_

_A creature might forget to weep, who bore_

_Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!_

_But love me for love's sake, that evermore_

_Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity._

* * *

M'borough Mills, Milton

-- Sep 1853

My dearest, sweetest Maggie,

You have the biggest heart in the world, but I beg you to have mercy on me and let us discuss Fanny no more. I'm still very sore from what she said; it will pass and I'll forgive her, as always, but this time the wound is deeper and it will take longer. – Please give my heartiest to Mr Hale & my best to Mrs Hale. And I promise you that you shall see your nephew or niece when the happy event occurs. – I am not sure how far one can reasonably expect the manufacturers to prevent 'suffering' and 'misfortunes' of others. Surely you cannot and would not hold responsible a rope manufacturer for the suffering and misfortunes of the family of a hanged man, would you, love?! Would you have the manufacturer's moral responsibility extend to the preventing of crimes that, if committed, would have a man condemned to death? If the cotton we make in M. Mills is used for our war efforts, I'll sleep well at night knowing full well that men are well-clothed. These men are at liberty to do what they chose, without my moral authority being extended thus far. – With all the fuss about the dinner, I am surprised that there are people mad enough to brave a second engagement! If we are to follow the French at all, I could think of a few better practices to choose from than dinner arrangements. Am I to expect snails for seconds, frogs for mains and my head off for dessert? I hope at least there would be some cheese. I like good strong cheese. But if I am in earnest, I don't mind asparagus if served with some strong sauce to improve the taste; but the soup is very thin and tasteless and reminds me of water-porridge, and the latter I've eaten more often than I care to remember. However, it will take significantly more than a plate of water-porridge _à la française_ to prevent me from finishing this dinner and taking you to Milton! So pray do not distress Mrs Shaw any further on the topic. – Speaking of dinners, my mother bids me to ask whether you might not prefer her giving a dinner instead of your paying individual calls to Milton's finest. You know our dinners and my mother would change whatever you find wanting; but if you prefer to pay your calls, my mother would be happy to accompany you.— I remember the white dress you wore to our dinner two years ago. You looked so graceful, so unrivalled, a goddess among mortals; a pearl among pebbles; a diamond to common glass. I was a moth to your flame. I wished that everyone would just go and leave me alone in the sanctity of your presence. You shook hands with me then, the first time we touched, and the sensation of this innocuous gesture has lived with me ever since, sweetness and sorrow in equal parts. Oh, how I long to see you, touch you, embrace you, hold you close to my heart; it is all too much to bear! – I could probably find some business in London and come earlier; is meeting my landlord not good enough an excuse? And why should I need an excuse? – I leave you now, as always,

a slave to my love for you,

JT

PS.

'_Tis not her birth, her friends, not yet her treasure,_

_Nor do I covet her for sensual pleasure,_

_Not for that old morality_

_Do I love her, 'cause she loves me._

_Sure he that loves his lady 'cause she's fair,_

_Delights his eye, so loves himself, not her._

_Something there is moves me to love, and I_

_Do know I love, but know not how, nor why._

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.**


	10. Bad Seeds

**I have amended the current chapter, polishing and adding new developments at the end. I am sorry if you have to read it twice, but I hope you do so again and leave me a comment as this version is better (wouldn't I just say that? ;) ) I'm particularly interested to see what you make of Henry. Disclaimer: ****The letter is a real letter ca 1920; I only take credit for the translation in English. Happy reading!**

* * *

'Oh, Henry, you know I can't help thinking that if only you'd have asked Margaret, we wouldn't have to suffer her going away to this dreadful, dreadful place.' Edith was reclining on her easy chair and lazily looked in the distance.

'I am sure you would have suffered equally acutely, had I asked her.' Henry's voice came up levelly behind the morning paper. 'And I won't ask her now so put it out of your head.'

'I'm not sure it's all hopeless still. If you only tried – nothing's been settled yet.' Edith's head jerked in his direction and she didn't see Margaret entering the room at the opposite end.

'What's not settled yet? I can't imagine there is anything else to be settled. One could say we were entertaining half of the realm, Edith.'

'I'm not sure anymore what we were talking about,' replied Edith briskly and looked towards Henry for help. The morning paper remained silent, so she continued, 'Oh, I'm so tired. Last night was positively exhausting. I do not understand why Helen persists in giving such unequal dinners. I was forced to do every dance. I feel a veritable wretch today, and I won't be surprised if my poor feet fell off.'

'What's not settled?' repeated Margaret stubbornly, ignoring the last remark and looking quizzically at her cousin. At length, Henry put the paper down and said carefully,

'The latest case at Chambers. Edith thought there was still a chance of a favourable settlement but she was wrong.'

'A case? How peculiar. I thought law gave you headache, Edith.'

'Oh, it does indeed! It's all so very boring and I can't seem to keep it into my head. But this case is different. I'm dying to know all about it and Henry is being obstinate.'

'I am?' Henry's eyebrows came together in barely suppressed puzzlement. He felt the strain, vague and yet clearly perceptible, between the two cousins, and he didn't like being drawn in the middle.

'Why, yes! The Ruskins case, of course, you silly.' Edith stood up in her chair excitedly. 'Margaret, have you heard? Effie Ruskin is going to -' she made a dramatic pause and sussurated the next word,– 'd-i-v-o-r-c-e.' She gazed triumphantly from Margaret to Henry and back a few times before reclining back in her chair and adding coolly, 'Or so one hears.'

'One hears a vast deal, no doubt,' came Mr Lennox's measured reply, 'but one should do better than believe most of it.'

'Oh, Henry!' Edith jerked up again. 'Don't be such a prude. Everyone is talking about it. Society is buzzing. It's all so – (she waved her hands helplessly) – well, it would have been exciting had it not been so shocking.'

'I have not been called a prude before, my dear sister. But it is only appropriate to exercise some caution and restraint in a matter of such delicacy.'

'Oh, I knew it. I knew it!' Edith's triumphant shrieks filled the room. 'You know more than you let out. How monstrously cruel of you, Henry, to keep us all in such unbearable a suspense! Come now, do tell! My ears are itching.'

'I beg you to exonerate me from such a charge, Edith, for it is wholly unfounded. Moreover, I am sure all suspense on Miss Margaret's part is on account of far more joyous an occasion.' He looked up to Margaret with a dry but friendly smile. She approached him smiling and replied playfully -

'I'm sure Henry you have a deal more on your mind than idle talk of the predicaments of marriage, whether joyous or unfortunate.'

'Ah, so true. I do not pretend to have first-hand knowledge of either. This is usually the province of the ladies who are forever more adept at experiencing them than we men are.' Henry had risen from his chair and stood a step next to Margaret, looked at her intently and added quietly, 'but I hope that in your case at least the predicament is a happy one still, even if the occasion appears to be a great deal more complicated than a walk to the church on a sunny day.'

Margaret was confounded this instant, unsure how to interpret his last words. The voice was soft, the eyes benevolent, almost smiling with their customary dry demeanour. Was it a charge? A reproach? Or mere friendly compassion? She managed a faint smile and an unsure 'Why, yes! Thank you, Henry!" before Edith's voice demanded her attention.

'I would say that there are plenty of women who would not consider dear Effie's predicament an unhappy one.'

'Edith!' Margaret was shocked. 'How could you! A divorced woman! What about her future.'

'I don't mean the divorce, Margaret, a dreadful thing to be sure, but her reasons. Plenty of women would be prettily content in her situation. It's for a reason that they are called 'wifely duties'. Why, no need to be so shocked. You'd please permit me to possess knowledge yet foreign to you. You'll learn it all soon enough, then you'll understand me better.'

Henry interrupted hurriedly,

'I see you are determined to pursue the topic of the Ruskins so I shall leave you to it.'

'But not before telling us all the particulars. Come, Henry, pretty please! We won't tell anyone.'

'I wouldn't tell you, my dear, even if I knew. At any rate, I do not see why you want to know; facts are enemies of gossip. I would not tell you the facts or I would deny you the pleasure. Your professions are wasted on me. Good-day!'

'An impossible man!' sighed Edith despondently after Henry and sank back in her chair. She began to twist idly a curl of hair around her forefinger. 'I'm sure he knows a lot more than he lets out.'

Margaret was oblivious to her cousin's torment, deep in thought. Until John wrote it, the idea that she could somehow cause Henry's recent lack of spirits hadn't crossed her mind. She hadn't told John about the ill-fated conversation of four years ago and even though her life had changed since then, and she had changed, and had grown into a young woman, she was still mortified and a great deal ashamed she could be thought of in such a way. Her instinct was to dismiss the notion as ridiculous but her regard for John's judgment was so high and steadfast that she decided to be more observant and careful around Henry, very conscious of his discomfiture. He'd been the perfect gentleman and until today hadn't said, done or implied anything that would betray his ever having designs on her. But he must remember it all very clearly, for she was sure he had cited her word for word. What did this mean and more pressingly, how should she behave towards him now? She liked him as a friend, and had grown to like him even better in the last year. He has been helpful and reliable and one of the few constant things in her present life. Even Mr Bell couldn't find anything displeasing about him, and surely that was saying something. It was so confusing.

Suddenly she became conscious of Edith's having asked her something. She hadn't heard the question but it was obvious her cousin expected a reply. Margaret rallied herself and with difficulty feigned an unconcerned air.

'I'm sorry, what was that, Edith?'

'I was just saying how unfortunate this business with poor Effie is. Who would have thought it? Theirs was such a love story. But let this be a lesson to you, Margaret. Not all that glitters is gold.'

'I am not sure I follow you.'

'Why, what I mean is that passion doesn't endure. Effie was smitten by John and his endless professions of love. It was the talk of the town. I'm sure I have heard a thousand times of that silly little story he wrote for her. And then their courtship, and honeymoon. Italy. Florence, I think. And all endless trips to the Scottish Highlands. All very grand and wildly romantic.'

'And all very enviable, I'm sure,' smiled Margaret, half-jokingly.

'Oh, I don't know about that. What was that about the book and its cover? It would seem things between them started going amiss right from the "I do". He was more interested in the art than in her – and before you object, I have this on a secure chain of intelligence.'

'I'm sure you do!' Margaret's voice betrayed almost imperceptible annoyance.

'I'll have you know that Effie has always been a particular friend of Helen Gibson. And Helen always said that there was something not quite right in the Ruskins household. John lost interest right after the wedding night – or rather during it – and Effie just couldn't do anything to better the situation.'

'Edith, I am not sure how this concerns me. Pray stop. I won't pry into their business. It's sacrilegious.'

'Oh don't be so prissy! Firstly, this is hardly private. When Helen knows it, everyone knows it. It's been widely discussed –'

'Exactly my point. I do not wish to hear it.'

'And secondly,' added Edith ignoring Margaret's words, 'I think you should pay close attention, very close indeed, bearing in mind –'

'Bearing in mind what exactly?' Margaret's blood boiled and her reaction was whip-sharp.

'Well – bearing in mind the very strong passions incited in your lover. And his are undoubtedly very strong passions because why else would you not show me his letters. All I am saying is that you have to be careful that you do not end up like poor Effie. Tricked into marrying on promises of love and all, only to find your poor self rejected by your 'lord and master'. They both have the same name, you know. Surely you wouldn't like being – jilted.'

'I do not know what I hear. But I know I do not like it. You have no business –' Margaret blanched for a moment, utterly at a lost how to continue. 'I shall not listen to you any more. I need to be alone. Excuse me.' And she hurriedly gathered her dress and almost fled the room.

Margaret ran to the uppermost floor of the house and released her breath only when the sturdy door of her room was safely closed behind her back. She had once again come to occupy the old nursery. Here, in her childhood refuge, she felt warmest and most secure, in the bitter-sweet comfort of her memories of old times, when her life was charmingly simple and the future equally uncomplicated, when she was surrounded by her dear parents, when Fred was still at home, when her father was the much respected vicar and her dear mama was healthy and smiling. Oh, days bygone!

She was distraught by Edith's words. She wanted to ignore them but they had lodged in her head, sneaky, unruly and stubbornly unyielding to reasoning. She remembered faintly the Ruskins courtship and marriage – it was around the time Edith and the Captain married. Margaret hadn't heard much about the marriage, Milton being at too merciful a distance for that. Edith had written occasional snippets of gossip when she'd tired from lamenting the madness of her uncle and the family's removal to the "barbaric" North. The source of most of it seemed to be Helen Gibson, whom Margaret knew to possess too much time on her hands and not enough wits to know what to do with it. But if Effie Ruskin was compelled to take such a terrifying and desperate step, something terrible must have happened. Surely such calamity would never befall Margaret; John would love her and honour, would he not? Margaret felt tired and bewildered. If only she was able to talk to someone, about these doubts. "Oh, dear, dear mother, help me! What should I do? I feel I am losing my bearing."

Margaret knelt by her bed and drew from under it her mother's old needlework box. She cupped her white hands pensively on the curved lid, as if to sense the warmth her mother's hands had left in the grooves and crannies in the wood. After a while, she opened the lid gingerly and took out John's last letter. Her fingers caressed the corner where he wrote his name in a bold and assured manner, and then turned the paper and prised it carefully open. Her eyes sought eagerly the soothing words within:

"_My dear love,_

_It is nine o'clock in the evening, everything around is still, I have your likeness before me & your self in my heart & I am filled up with pride & jubilation at the realization that something infinitely important & joyous has happened in my life. I have toiled away for long, hard years & I thought I have made something of my life but only now I see it for the restless void it truly was, & the dreadful torture it would be, without your grace & strength as safe & peaceful refuge for my tired soul. - I will make you happy, my dearest & cherished Margaret, I will infect you with my love & our life together will be the happiest & the most glorious that ever was. I am no poet or a skilful lover; am a plain & uncouth fellow; but I promise you that I will be true & complete in all I say & do to you & I only beg of you that you leave open your heart, your pure & innocent heart, & I will fill it with my love; & it will feel for me what mine feels for you & we shall be forever & immeasurably happy."_

Margaret closed her eyes and clasped the letter close to her chest. Sudden and violent warmth spread from her belly to all bodily extremities and made her dizzy and faint. She leaned back on the plush pillows and read the letter again even though she knew it by heart just like all his other letters. It made her feel safe and happy beyond any measure of felicity and comfort she had felt before and dissipated some of the effect of Edith's words. "_True and complete in all I say and do to you_", he wrote. Oh, how wrong Edith was! How could a man with so much tenderness and passion and such firmness and justness of character like Mr. Thornton lead her in a falsehood?

Edith had mentioned 'wifely duties' and Margaret could not fathom how these came to be in a conversation about the dissolution of the holiest of unions. Her mother had never talked to her of such matters, as at the time there was no occasion for it, and now when the need arose, Margaret found herself deprived of the best advice. One would suppose a married cousin or an aunt the natural authorities for a timid maiden to turn to, but in view of Aunt Shaw's coolness to the very idea of Mr Thornton and Edith's apparent scheming against it, Margaret felt deserted and desperately alone. Could Dixon know something about such duties? Weren't servants more casual in their private dealing? And how about Mrs. Thornton? Margaret felt her stomach tighten and another hot wave of queasiness overcome her at the thought of having to endure such an interview. Even marrying Mr. Thornton would not aby for such mortification.

'Strength!' whispered she to herself. 'I have nothing to fear but fear itself. A few more days and he'll be here and take me away, and everything will be as it should be'.

And yet, if Edith was right, what was Margaret to do? And anyway, what was Edith about precisely? Margaret resolved to understand more about the Ruskins, but how? Henry Lennox said he didn't know details and even if he did, she would never dare broach the subject with him. Soon an opportunity presented itself in a most unlikely way when the very same day, just as they gathered in the drawing room before dinner, Mr. Lennox took her gently by the arm and directed her away from the others.

'I understood, Margaret, that you felt rather unwell earlier today. Are you better now?'

'Well, yes, Henry! Thank you!'

'I am very glad indeed to hear it.' There Mr Lennox paused and motioned her to the sofa. He seated himself next to her, and after a still and pensive moment under her quizzical gaze, continued with a barely hidden discomfiture.

'Margaret, I must beg your forgiveness if what I am about to say causes any offence or mortification, as I know it must, but I promise you that I speak strictly as a concerned old friend and in the sole desire and hope to be of service to you. I beg you to hear me out and there is no need to trouble yourself with replying.'

Here he stopped and leaned even closer to her, his voice became barely audible.

'I do not presume to know a woman's heart but I believe there is a veritable storm of conflicting thoughts and feelings that could very well overwhelm someone in love when the lover's motives and intentions are in some way questioned. I understood that certain information has been imparted to you this morning after my departure and certain suggestions have been made which, and I hazard a guess here, must have had a deeply distressing effect on you. I refer, of course, to Edith's talk of the Ruskins case. I ought not to impart much detail, and what I will, must remain in the strictest of confidences. We have been friends with the Grays for a long time; and we grew up together with their children back in Scotland. Some time ago, Effie's father came to me for some legal advice on how the marriage could be dissolved. Effie and Janet have always been particularly close, and this friendship, together with the longstanding family relationship, has encouraged him to turn to me on such a delicate matter. I am not going to trouble you with the complex legal proceedings but what you need to know is that Mr Gray has petitioned for an annulment, the fault is with Ruskin and he is not contesting. It should be all done and dusted soon and no doubt it will become subject of gossips, conjectures and insinuations of the likes of Edith and her friends.' He hesitated a little then added with a quiet and decided purpose. 'The important thing to remember is that the delicacy of the matter is matched only by its rarity and you must rest assured that such another case is so improbable as to render it wholly unworthy of consideration. Please forgive me; I have embarrassed you. But you now have the facts and I hope you understand my reasons and see my actions in the light they are meant. The last thing I would like to say now, is that if you ever thought that I could be of service to you, I would be glad to oblige you.'

Margaret remained silent for some time, barely suppressing her agitation. 'Thank you, Henry,' said she quietly and pressed her small white hand on his. 'You are a good man and I am grateful for your friendship.' Her large soft eyes gashed the young lawyer's valiant heart and all the conviction in the justness and morality of his deed could not abate his pain.

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